


Confluence

by DHW



Series: Sanctuary [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM, Mild Kink, dom!Giles, sub!Buffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:24:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: The new year brings with it a host of new challenges. Buffy's meddling little sister being the least of them...---Runner Upat theHeadline Awards (2018)in the following category: The Good Squirm (Best Smut).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** A little more angst. A little more sex. A little more plot. Still shameless? Absolutely.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Not mine. I'm just playing with them. I'll put them back when I've finished. Promise.

“I would like you to close your eyes.”

The evening air smelt of sweet cherry blossoms. The scent of spring mingling pleasantly with that of the rain and damp earth. Buffy shifted in her seat, the worn cotton of the daybed soft beneath the flat of her palms. Slowly, she followed his instructions, her world becoming dark. 

“However, if you cannot keep them shut, I shall have to blindfold you.” A pause. “Is that what you wish?”

Buffy shook her head, a lazy smile creeping across her face. A small thrum of excitement had begun to build within her, the tension rising with each of his softly-spoken words. 

“Good.”

They were in the summerhouse today, sheltering from the April showers that had beset Giles’ garden. Beyond, she could hear the soft pitter patter of the rain upon the glass, the muted birdsong of the nightingales and swallows that sheltered amongst the foliage. 

There was the soft rustle of fabric to her left, followed by the sound of a footstep upon the wooden floor. She felt the lightest of touches against her neck, rough fingertips tracing the jut of her exposed collarbone. A frission of electricity rolled across her skin, following the path his fingers had taken, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. 

Buffy felt her smile broaden, fighting the urge to open her eyes. Instead, she took a deep breath, concentrating on the feel of Giles’ fingers and the sound of his voice. 

“There are two-hundred and six bones in the human body. This,” he said, his touch firmer now, “is the only long bone that lies horizontally. Do you know what it’s called?”

“Clavicle.”

He rewarded her answer with a kiss; a quick press of warm lips against the bone in question, tongue darting out to touch her velvet skin. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered what it would feel like to have him kiss her properly. To have those lips pressed against her own, feel the tentative brush of his tongue along hers. Almost a year had passed since she had forced upon him their first and only kiss; the ill-received kiss that had sparked the change to their relationship, whatever their relationship now was. Well, other than complicated. 

Despite the nature of the afternoons they spent here, in the garden, Giles had never truly kissed her. Not as lovers kissed. 

Not that they _were_ lovers. Much to Buffy’s growing disappointment.

Try as she might, she couldn’t squash the feelings that swelled up inside her whenever he was near, and sometimes, even when he wasn’t. What had begun a year ago as only the merest hint of a crush had blossomed into something bigger, stronger; something decidedly harder to ignore. 

“It comes from the latin _clavicula_ ,” said Giles, his tone taking on the lecturing quality it had so often back in Sunnydale. Familiar. Intoxicating. “A word meaning little key.”

Buffy straightened her shoulders, drawing herself up taller as Giles continued to trace the swell of her collarbone. His fingertips paused at a bump, questioning. 

“Fell down the stairs when I was five,” answered Buffy. 

“Ah.” 

The air around her shifted as Giles drew closer. So close she could feel the heat of him through her shirt. It made her light headed, almost nauseous with desire. She felt his touch grow a fraction firmer as his fingers moved towards the base of her throat, towards the tiny golden lock that nestled there. 

“The point at which they meet,” he said, “this hollow, is called the suprasternal notch.”

Buffy frowned. “The suprasternal what?”

“Notch. A less well-known erogenous zone.” She felt a finger slide beneath the chain that adorned her neck, gently pulling it away from her skin. “Often accented with jewellery. Delicate pieces that draw attention to its shadow, its shape.”

Buffy leant forward, revelling in the feelings his touch elicited within her as the movement brought his fingers back into contact with her skin once more. She felt a second hand join the first, the palm pressed against the side of her neck, thumb lazily tracing the line of her jugular. 

“Like the lock,” she said softly, her words barely more than a whisper. 

“Just so.” 

She swallowed. 

“And does it capture your attention?” 

“Always,” he replied. “The glint of it in the hollow of your throat, marking you as mine whilst you wear it.”

Buffy felt her stomach lurch at his words. A shadow of the ones she really wanted to hear; that she was his, lock or not. 

Her eyes snapped open. 

“And when I don’t?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer. 

“You belong to no one but yourself,” he said, his tone serious. His gaze dropped to the finger beneath the lock, drawing it up and away from her skin once more. “Even this is only an affectation. A game of pretend we play.”

“But what you said –” 

“And I play along.” His face became thoughtful as he scanned hers. “I do believe I told you to close your eyes.”

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“Then by all means don’t.” A sly grin curled his lips. “But then the game ends and we go back to our books.”

“I can think of a better game.”

“Of that I have little doubt.” Giles peered at her over the rims of his glasses, his face a picture of mock severity. “Close your eyes, Anne.”

Buffy closed her eyes, pouting as she did so, hands on her hips. “You’re impossible. Do you know that?”

She heard a brief huff of amusement. 

“Lie back,” said Giles. 

“And think of England?”

“Would you perhaps prefer to think of California?”

Buffy pouted but complied nonetheless. 

“I think I’d prefer to just get on with it,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. 

Buffy felt the mattress dip as Giles joined her upon the daybed. The rustling of fabric filled the air as he settled himself above her, his knees either side of her denim-clad thighs. She shivered, heat pooling deep in her belly as Giles’ hands encircled her wrists, gently uncrossing her arms. He moved them to her sides, holding them down with just enough pressure to force her palms flat upon the mattress. She flexed a little beneath him, testing the strength of his hold upon her. 

“Patience is a virtue,” he said, smartly, his tone reminding her, briefly and somewhat disconcertingly, of Wesley. 

“As is expedience.” A huff of amusement passed her lips as she felt his grip tighten briefly in surprise. “What? Contrary to popular belief, my vocabulary does extend to words of more than two syllables.”

“I don’t believe I ever said otherwise,” he replied nonchalantly, releasing her wrists and gently sweeping his palms across the bare skin of her arms. 

Buffy felt a small stab of disappointment as he freed her. Though she knew his strength was no match for hers, there was something more than a little thrilling about being physically restrained in such a way, subject to his rule, his control. Even if it was just for show.

“Nah, you just thought it really loudly.”

The springs of the bed creaked as he rocked back into a kneeling position, the warm weight of him settling over her thighs. He placed a hand, his left, upon the flat plain of her belly, his thumb caressing the golden skin that peeked out from beneath the hem of her t-shirt. 

“Nor do I believe you are a mind reader,” he said, his other hand gently turning hers, exposing the pale flesh of her wrist. A pause. “Well, not anymore.”

Buffy grinned, unable to help herself. 

“Who needs to be when your thoughts are practically screaming at me?” she teased, fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at him. 

“Oh really? And what, pray tell, are they screaming now?” he said, offhandedly, his fingernails tracing feather light spirals upon the soft skin of her inner forearm. 

“That you want to fuck me.”

Giles snorted in amusement.

“How crass of them.”

“I always knew the polite, stuffy English thing was just a cover,” she said, wiggling her hips enticingly, delighting the soft groan that slipped from him as she did so. “You may be all books and scones and starched pants on the outside, but beneath your tragically tweedy exterior, you’re just as disgraceful as the rest of us.”

“Are you quite finished assassinating my character?”

Buffy grinned. 

“For now.”

“In that case,” he said, grasping her wrist once more and pinning it above her, “I want you to put your hands above your head.”

A sharp thrill shot through her as she complied with his request, bringing her other hand up to meet the one he had pinned. He moved to hold the other, pressing them both into the soft surface of the mattress. 

“Are you going to tie me up?”

She heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a questioning, “Would you like that?” 

“Yes,” she hissed, flexing her fingers. As if to emphasise the point, she rolled her hips, delighting in the strangled moan that escaped Giles as she pressed against the thick ridge of his erection.

Clearly he was not averse to the idea, either. 

“Don’t move,” he said, his weight lifting from her as he moved from the bed. “And keep your eyes closed.”

As tempted as she was to sneak a peek at her Watcher’s retreating form, Buffy obeyed, keeping her eyes tightly shut. Somewhere to her left, she could hear the sound of a drawer opening and the quiet whisper of fabric as Giles rummaged for a suitable method of restraint. Moments later, she heard the soft padding of bare feet against the wooden floor and the creak of the metal bed frame above her head, felt the dip of the mattress as he settled astride her once more.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his voice low and a little unsteady.

Buffy nodded. She felt his cool fingers brush against her left wrist, then her right, binding them together with a length of something soft and silky. Not too snug, giving her just enough room to flex them, but tight enough that she felt restricted, restrained. 

At his mercy. 

Buffy tugged at her bonds, hearing the bedstead creak as she did so. They were shorter than she had expected, barely allowing any movement. She uncurled her hands, the backs of her fingers brushing against the cold metal of the bedframe as she traced the knot that tied her to it. 

“Lift your head,” said Giles, sliding a hand beneath the back of her skull. 

The swish of cloth filled the air and Buffy found her eyes swiftly covered by more of the silky-feeling fabric. A blindfold. Clearly Giles did not trust her to remember to keep her eyes closed.

She felt him press a small, chaste kiss to her forehead. A shiver ran through her. She thought once more of him capturing her lips with his, stealing hot little kisses as she lay beneath him, bound and helpless. A low groan rumbled through her chest before she could stop it. 

“God, look at you,” he breathed, breaking her train of thought. 

A small moan escaped her as she felt him palm her breasts through her t-shirt, his thumbs rubbing lightly over the stiff peaks of her nipples. Her back arched almost involuntarily, pushing herself further into his grasp as she sought to ease the ache that had settled there with his touch. 

Slowly, his hands began to move lower, skimming over her ribcage and down across the taut plain of her stomach to the waistband of her jeans. She strained against her bonds as she felt him slowly inch down the zipper, his fingers sliding into the gap to press against her cotton-covered cunt. 

She was almost embarrassingly wet, the fabric of her knickers slick. Above her, she could hear Giles’ soft groan as he traced the contours of her through the damp cloth.

“Please,” Buffy whispered, her throat tight. 

“Please what?” he said, curling his index finger to drag a nail across the sodden fabric that covered her clit. 

_Please do that again. Please touch me. Please fuck me._

Before she could answer, Giles removed his hand from between her thighs, instead sliding it beneath the waistband of her knickers. She gasped as he pushed a long finger inside her. It was almost immediately joined by a second, his palm cupping the curve of her pubic bone, the delicious pressure against her clit sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. Movement constricted by the tight fabric of her jeans, his pace was slow, almost leisurely. His fingers curled ever so slightly as they moved within her, hitting some secret spot deep inside, the pleasure slowly building until she was almost on the verge of orgasm. 

“God, please, don’t stop.”

She felt him shift above her, his fingers pressing deeper as he moved. The sound of a lowering zipper filled the air, followed by a shaky exhale and the rhythmic sound of skin sliding against skin. Buffy swallowed roughly, her mouth suddenly dry. 

“You look so perfect this way,” he said quietly, almost to himself. 

A low groan bubbled up from her throat as she realised exactly what he was doing. Where his other hand was. She longed to remove the blindfold, longed to watch him stroke the hard length of his cock as he pressed his fingers deeper into her cunt. 

Longed to watch the expression on his face as he lost himself to the pleasure of it. 

But she couldn’t. Instead, she concentrated on the sound of him; the whisper of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings beneath them, the soft little moans he couldn’t help but make. It was intoxicating. 

Buffy clenched tightly around his fingers, her hips jerking violently. She felt her muscles beginning to tense, readying themselves for the rush of her impending orgasm when, beneath her, she felt an odd buzzing. A loud and rather obnoxious noise cut through the haze of her thoughts. A noise that appeared to be emanating from somewhere in the region of her left buttock.

It was the ringing of a mobile phone. More specifically, her phone. 

Giles’ hand stilled. 

“I think you ought to answer that,” he said, his voice oddly calm for a man with two fingers still deep inside her and his other hand... 

She rolled her hips, urging him to ignore the ringing and continue. She was so close it almost hurt. 

“It’s probably nothing,” she growled, her frustration mounting as she felt the sharp ache of incompletion begin to settle between her thighs. 

“The Council has that number. It could be something important.”

“But this is important.”

Buffy frowned as she felt him slowly withdraw his fingers, heard the metallic rasp of a zip and the rustle of cotton as he wiped his fingers on the handkerchief she knew he kept in his trouser pocket. 

“That may be,” he said smartly, “but do you really want to risk it?”

“Fine,” she said. Scowling, Buffy went to reach for the phone nestled in the back pocket of her jeans, only to find she couldn’t; her hands were still tied to the bedposts. “Erm, Giles, slight problem.”

She felt him freeze above her. 

“Oh, ahem, yes, quite.”

Buffy had expected him to untie her, or at least remove her blindfold. However, he did neither. Instead, he simply reached into the pocket and pulled out her phone. 

“Hello,” he said. There was a brief pause. “Oh, hello Dawn. No, it’s Giles. I’m afraid Buffy’s a little tied up at the moment, but I’d be happy to pass on a message.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn Summers lived in a pokey little terrace in the centre of Jericho, Oxford. It was a two up, two down affair that had seen several decades’ worth of students. To call it ‘shabby chic’ would have been entirely too charitable; the furniture was threadbare, the wallpaper peeling at the edges, and the carpet almost certainly older than the three students who called No. 29 Nelson Street their home. But it was cheap and close to St. Anne’s, which was all that mattered. 

It was Dawn’s first year at university, reading classics. She’d taken to student life like a duck to water, spending her days studying in the College library, and her nights living it up in the bars and clubs that littered Oxford’s winding streets. Something Buffy couldn’t help but feel more than a little jealous over, her own (brief) university experience ending on a less than spectacular note. 

“I was thinking we could go into the city centre for lunch,” said Dawn over the low chatter of the radio, picking at a loose thread on the hem of her jumper. “I know this cute little café just off Gloucester Street. The guy behind the counter draws little bears on the tops of the mochas. Freaking adorable.” 

Buffy leaned back against the kitchen counter, steaming mug of coffee cradled in her hands, and looked at the clock that sat above the sink. It was quarter to one. 

“Aren’t we going to wait for Giles?” she asked, firmly ignoring the grumbling of her stomach. 

The pair of them had arrived in Oxford earlier that morning. It has been Giles’ idea; originally Dawn had suggested meeting up in London, intent on spending some quality sister-time before she hared off back to California for the Easter break. Instead, Giles had offered to drive Buffy over to Oxford, mumbling half-hearted explanations about student finances and meeting up with old friends and tutors. Secretly, Buffy suspected it was just a convenient excuse to visit his alma mater. Revel a little in the nostalgia he held for the city of dreaming spires. 

Not that she thought that was his only ulterior motive, either. She fancied that the prospect of spending a long car journey alone together also held a certain appeal for him. 

Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking on her part. 

“Nah,” said Dawn with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He said he’d ring once he’s finished up at Baliol.” A large grin broke across her face. “Besides, I’m starving. If we wait any longer, I might start to digest myself.” 

Buffy quirked an eyebrow as she cast a critical eye over her sister’s lithe form. 

“We are standing in a kitchen. You know, the place where food is kept,” she said, draining the last of the coffee from her mug. “You could make yourself a snack.”

“Or, controversial idea, we could just go already?”

“But Giles –”

“He’s a big boy, Buffy. He can take care of himself.” Dawn cast a sideways glance at her sister. “And since when do you care so much about Giles, anyway?”

Buffy felt the tell-tale beginnings of a blush start to colour her cheeks. 

“I don’t,” she said hastily, turning to hide her face under the pretence of washing her empty mug. “But he is kinda technically my boss now, being Head of the Council and all that.”

“Worried he might fire you for going to lunch without him?” teased Dawn. 

“Don’t be dumb.”

Buffy could practically hear Dawn’s eye roll. 

“Then what’s the big deal?”

Buffy sighed, knowing she’d lost the fight. Carefully, she slotted the clean mug into the precarious tower of chipped and mismatched crockery that sat on the drying rack. 

“There is no deal. Big or otherwise,” she said, shrugging into her coat. She cast a sly grin at her sister. “Let’s go then. I don’t want to have to explain to Xander how mean old Buffy killed his girlfriend. Long distance calls are expensive.”

Dawn gave Buffy a playful shove as she gathered her handbag.

“Rude.”

\---

The coffee shop was nice, in an ironic, hipster sort of way. Nothing like the ones she’d often frequented back in California. Less chrome and leather, more exposed brickwork and kitsch ornamentation. Bicycles hung from the ceiling, swinging on steel chords in the slight breeze that wafted in from the door. An odd choice of decor, Buffy thought. But then again, it was Oxford, the city where the cyclist was king. And perhaps Elle Décor just wasn’t a thing over here.

They did, however, do an excellent mocha, complete with promised bear drawn in the foam. So that was a point in the café’s favour, terrible décor aside. 

“You need to get out more,” said Dawn between mouthfuls of her bacon roll. “It’s no wonder you’re so tragically single, spending so much time at the Council.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Buffy flopped indecorously down across from her sister, setting her mug upon on the wooden table top with a clunk. 

Buffy had been waiting for the comment ever since she arrived. The fact that almost four hours had passed before Dawn had made it meant little save the possibility that university had taught her sister the art of patience alongside her Latin and Greek. She’d known it was coming. And thankfully Dawn had waited until they were alone. 

Well, as alone as one could be in a busy café. 

“Hmmm, twelve-hour days with a bunch of unattractive, tweedy, middle-aged Englishmen. Sounds like just the place to find some Buffy-love,” Dawn replied sarcastically. “Most of them are old enough to be your dad. It’s kinda creepy, when you think about it.”

“How is spending time at work creepy?” Buffy crossed her arms, glaring. “And, not that I’m in any way justifying what you’ve just said, because ew, but what does age have to do with anything? Angel and Spike were hardly my age.”

“Also creepy,” said Dawn with a wave of a ketchup-covered finger, “but for entirely different reasons.”

“You _like_ Spike.”

“I like Clem too, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend an evening doing the horizontal hokey-pokey with him.”

The pair shuddered. 

“Again, ew! That was not an image I needed,” said Buffy with a grimace. “And are you just going to spend the whole of lunch insulting my love life?”

“What love life?” 

“Funny.”

It wasn’t. Not even close. 

“What can I say, I am hilarious,” said Dawn with a grin. “But seriously, Buffy, you need to stop mooning over Spike. Or Angel –”

“I am _not_ mooning over Spike.”

“Fine. Mooning over whoever, then! That’s kinda not the point.”

“There is no point, Dawn. You are without a point.”

“My _point is_ ,” stressed Dawn, “that whatever it is that’s lead you to a life of celibacy and anti-fun, you need to get over it. Get back out there. See the world, meet some men, preferably with pulses this time.” Dawn grimaced. “ I mean, what is it with you and vampires, anyway?”

“Dawn,” Buffy growled warningly. 

“I guess there was Riley, but he seemed like more of an exception than a rule,” she mused, almost to herself. “I never really got what you saw in him, anyway – super dull. And it’s not like he was a riot in the sack, either. Or at least, he didn’t sound like he was to me.” Dawn gave Buffy a knowing smirk. “Thin walls.”

“God, would you shut up?!”

“Besides,” she continued, ignoring Buffy’s hissed plea, “you go all weird when you aren’t getting any smoochies.”

“I’ve not gone weird.”

“You decided you’d rather wait for Giles than go for coffee.” Dawn quirked a dark eyebrow. “I’d say that’s pretty weird. For you, anyway. And what is with that? Suddenly, you’re all super thoughtful and considerate on the Giles-frontage. Not that I’m anything but Pro-Giles, but you’ve got to admit, little weird.”

“It may have escaped your notice, Dawn, but he is my Watcher.”

“Ex-Watcher,” she corrected. “And yeah, but like that’s ever made a difference before.”

“Maybe I’ve just grown up,” said Buffy, carefully. Dawn could be awfully perceptive when she wanted to be, and Buffy’s troubling feelings towards the ex-Watcher in question were not something she wanted to share. 

“Well, you are twenty-six. I guess it did have to happen at some point.”

“Again with the funny.”

“It’s a talent.”

“I haven’t got time to date, Dawn,” she said, a little more sharply than she'd intended. She gave Dawn a sad smile. “Plus, bad things happen when it comes to Buffy love.” 

“That's a load of bull, and you know it," replied Dawn.

A thoughtful look crossed her face. One Buffy did not like the look of one little bit.

"You know, I think what you really need is a holiday. Somewhere sunny, with a beach. Ooo, and lots of hot men in shorts. Wait, scratch that. Lots of hot, _single_ men in shorts. With no shirts.” Dawn winked. “Beats spending your date-less days with stuffy, old Watchers.” Her gaze flickered up to a spot just behind Buffy’s left shoulder. “Wouldn’t you say so?” 

“Wouldn’t I say what?”

Buffy froze at the sound of Giles’ familiar baritone, wishing the world would open up and swallow her whole. Slowly, she turned to face him, wondering how much he’d heard. It was embarrassing enough having one’s sister loudly decry her supposed dry-spell to a room full of strangers. To have her do so in front of a friend, not to mention one she was sleeping with, was nothing short of mortifying. What if he got the wrong idea? What if he thought she wasn’t satisfied with their current arrangement? 

What if he thought she didn’t want him?

“That Buffy needs to get out more,” chirped her sister, seemingly oblivious to Buffy’s discomfort.

“Oh, I should think you’re quite right, Dawn,” replied Giles with a tight smile, pulling out the chair beside her. “Am I too late for lunch?” 

“I thought you were going to call?” asked Buffy, hoping neither Giles nor Dawn would notice the embarrassed blush that she was certain coloured her cheeks. 

“A text seemed a little more expedient,” he said, unwilling to meet her eyes as he took his seat, choosing instead to busy himself with the menu that sat wedged between the condiments. 

“Yeah, Buffy,” chimed in Dawn, waving her mobile. “Technology has moved on. Calling no longer essential.”

Buffy scowled at her sister. 

“Shut up, Dawn.”

\---

They returned to London shortly before midnight.

“Do you wanna come in?” she asked, fishing in her handbag for the keys to her flat. “We could maybe finish what we started the other day? You know, before Dawn so rudely interrupted us.”

Giles shook his head. 

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I really ought to head back. Early start tomorrow.”

Buffy frowned. It was unlike him to turn her down. And, if anything, her flat was closer to the Council buildings than his. 

“Giles?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Buffy,” he said with a quick nod, before winding up the window and heading off into the narrow streets of inner-London. 

As she shut the door to her flat, Buffy was left with the distinct impression that something wasn’t quite right.

\---

It turned out Buffy was correct in her assumption. Something wasn’t quite right. And whatever that ‘something’ was, it had resulted in Giles doing an almost Houdini-esque disappearing act.

In the three weeks since their return from Oxford, Buffy had seen him once, and that had been at the Council’s annual budget meeting. Beyond that brief hour, most of which he had spent arguing with the Head of Analytics over the cost of a new IT server, Buffy had seen neither hide nor hair of him. According to his secretary, he had not been in his office for the best part of a month, and when asked where he was, she received nothing more than a sharp retort of ‘on Council business’. He was not in his garden, either; each weekend, Buffy had made the long trek to Gloucestershire, only to find herself sitting alone amongst the flowers, more confused than before. 

It was childish, it was cowardly, but most of all, it was bewildering. He was avoiding her like the plague, and she was determined to find out why. 

It was this determination that led to her to Giles’ London flat, where she stood in the pouring rain, rapping impatiently upon the door. Moments later, it swung open to reveal its mildly dishevelled-looking owner; five o’clock shadow at his jaw, tie loose around his neck, shirttails untucked. He blinked owlishly behind his glasses, as he leant, hands in pockets, against the doorjamb. 

“Can I come in?”

“Buffy, it’s late,” he said tiredly. 

Buffy bristled at his reply. He never refused her entry unless he was avoiding something. And usually, when it came to matters like this, that something was her. 

“It’s raining. I want to come in,” she said, her voice firm, broking no argument. 

Scowling, she drew herself up to full height, hoping to intimidate him into letting her inside. True, he cut a more imposing figure, but she outmatched him in both strength and agility. If she wanted to go inside, there was little he could do to stop her. 

And they both knew it. 

Sighing deeply, Giles stood back, opening the door further to allow her into the hallway. 

“You’re damp,” he remarked, somewhat redundantly. He frowned as he slid her dripping cardigan from her shoulders and proceeded to drape it over the sideboard that lurked in the shadow of the door. “Have you been patrolling?” His eyes widened with concern. “Has something happened?”

“Oh yeah, something’s happened,” she said, pushing past him into the living room. 

“What’s wrong?”

“You know, at first I thought it was all kinda in my head,” she said, pacing, carefully avoiding the piles of books stacked high next to the side table. “That I was imagining things and maybe you were just busy. Council to run, Slayers to lecture, demons to squish and all that. But that’s not true, is it?”

“Pardon?” he said, a look of bewilderment gracing his tired features. “I’m afraid I’m not sure I quite follow you.”

She rounded on him. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“Buffy, I –”

“Don’t lie to me, Giles.”

She watched his gaze slide from hers to a spot on the floor just in front of her feet. 

“I’m not avoiding you, Buffy.”

Buffy slammed her hand on the table, causing the glassware upon it to clatter and jangle from the force of the blow. Giles flinched. 

“I said don’t lie!”

Giles didn’t reply. Instead, he sat down upon the sofa, sprawling gracelessly over the arm as he reached for the bottle that lay on the carpet beside him. 

As she watched him fumble with the bottle cap, something clicked. She'd been here before. Or at least somewhere strikingly similar.

“You’re drunk,” she said, accusingly. 

“Hardly. I dare say I'm tipsy, at best,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

"It doesn't matter."

They lapsed into silence, the only sound that of the rain upon the windows and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Buffy glared at Giles, arms crossed, wet hair dripping onto the carpet, as she waited for him to speak.

“I overheard you and Dawn,” he said after some time, staring down at the half empty whiskey bottle in his hands. Slowly, avoiding her gaze, he took a long swig of the amber liquid, grimacing as he swallowed. 

“Me and Dawn?”

“Yes.”

“What? I don’t get it?” Her eyes narrowed. “What did you hear?”

“Enough for me to reassess our situation,” he said tartly. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I-I realise now that it is selfish of me to commandeer all your time, such as I do. You’re a beautiful young woman with a bright future. It’s only natural that you should want to seek out similarly youthful companionship with which to share that future. To form relationships, p-perhaps even marry, have children. I fear that I may be interfering with that.”

Giles' reply sounded mechanical, rehearsed, almost like he'd been practicing it for some time. Buffy looked at the whiskey bottle clutched tightly in his left hand with dawning horror. It was all starting to make a terrible sort of sense.

“Is that what you’ve been torturing yourself over?”

“I’m holding you back.”

“So what, you just decided that this is over? So long, Buffy, and thanks for all the sex but it’s time for you to move on and spread your legs for a lover society approves of. Tick tock, tick tock. Time’s running out for your white picket fence and 2.4 children.”

His gaze snapped up to hers, his green eyes cold. 

“We aren’t lovers, Buffy.”

She flinched, his words like a knife to her heart.

“I thought we were friends,” she said quietly, unable to help the hurt she felt from edging into her voice.

“As did I.”

“Are we?” she said, her anger beginning to build again under the weight of his icy glare. “Because I thought friends made decisions together.”

Giles ignored the jab. 

“You need to go out and meet people, people your own age, rather than staying with me at the weekends,” he said firmly. “I’m concerned you may be substituting what we do for a real relationship.”

“Don’t you dare!” she shouted. “Don’t you dare try to spin it so that it’s my fault! Not again. I won't have it!”

“Sorry?” he said, an expression of bewilderment replacing the blank mask his features had previously assumed.

“You make all these decisions without ever thinking for a second about how I feel. It’s just like when you left me the last time. You didn’t listen then, either, just told me how it was all for my own good. That you knew what I needed and fuck what I wanted. And look how well that turned out.”

“Buffy, for god's sake, I'm not leaving you, I'm –”

“No, Giles. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then why did you bother to come here at all?” he snapped.

“You know, I’m really starting to wonder myself.”

Giles set the bottle down with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.

“What do you want, Buffy?”

“I want things to stay the way they are,” she said, her fists clenched. “Just you and me, spending time together.”

“Fucking,” he said bluntly. 

“You really think that’s all I care about? Getting laid?” she hissed. “That the sum total of my happiness is determined solely by how many times someone can get me off in an afternoon?” 

“Me.”

“What?”

“Not ‘someone’. Me.”

“I know who I’m fucking, Giles.”

“Do you?” he asked, beginning to tug at his tie. 

Buffy watched, her eyes widening almost comically, as he stood and tossed the strip of purple silk, before beginning on the buttons at his throat.

“What are you doing?”

“Reminding you exactly who it is you’re _fucking_ ,” he spat.

The shirt was next, thrown in a crumpled heap at his feet, closely followed by his undershirt and trousers until he was left standing before her naked save for a pair of black cotton boxers. His eyes were steely behind his glasses, his expression harsh and unforgiving, daring her to laugh, to mock him as she had so often before. 

“Drink me in. See me in all my middle-aged glory,” he said bitterly, holding his arms aloft. “Delight in my receding hairline and my ever expanding waist.”

Buffy blinked, struck dumb by his show of bravado. In all their time together, she’d never seen him so exposed. She’d seen snatches, glimpses here and there, but never a complete picture. Giles had been careful about that now, she realised. A misguided attempt at saving her from the reality of what she was doing, who she was really fucking. 

Letting her truly escape. 

She stared at her half-naked Watcher, seeing all the little imperfections that marked his less than flawless form. The wrinkles etched deeply into his pale skin, the silvery hair that peppered his body, the slight curve of his once-flat stomach, each the result of a life long lived. Beautiful little flaws, adding to the whole rather than detracting from it. But that wasn’t what truly caught her attention. 

No. What she saw first were the scars. 

They crisscrossed over his pale flesh like cobwebs. Some she recognised; burn marks left by Angelus at his shoulders, the mess of his side from the lance he’d taken back in the desert, the faded remnants of his tangle with Willow in the Magic box. Others she didn’t; the puckered skin that stretched over his hip, the thick, red line of a surgical scar that stretched down his left thigh. 

“God, Giles, your scars–” she blurted before she could stop herself.

“Are not up for discussion at this moment in time.”

Buffy swallowed roughly, her gaze dropping to her lap. This was why he hadn’t let her to see him before; he didn’t want her to see how vulnerable he truly was, remind her of each battle they had fought together, each near miss he had suffered for her. Show her the sacrifices he’d made written deep into the fabric of his skin. She could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame. 

“The fact that you cannot even bear to look at me speaks volumes,” he said quietly. 

She heard him draw a deep breath before speaking again. 

“This was a mistake. A well intentioned mistake, perhaps, but it is better that this stops now.”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “Giles –”

He held up a hand to silence her. Suddenly, he seemed to slump, crumple in on himself, his bravado gone. 

“Please, Buffy,” he said, closing his eyes. He opened his palm, letting the contents of it drop to the floor with a quiet clink. 

It was the lock and chain.

Buffy stared at it, the golden metal glinting almost mockingly in the lamplight. She could feel her vision beginning to blur. 

“The keys are on the sideboard if you want to let yourself out,” he said softly, and left the room without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

Fuck. 

This was bad. Worse than bad, even. It was catastrophic.

Everything was spiralling out of control. She was losing Giles. Losing that ‘maybe’ that had run like an undercurrent through their agreement. She could feel the hope she had held, however naïve, of becoming more than simply friends slipping through her fingers, falling and shattering into a million tiny pieces. 

And she didn’t know how to fix it, or even if she could. 

The sensible thing would have been to leave, or at least, if she were intent on staying, to shed her sodden outer layers before they sucked what lingering warmth remained from her. But Buffy was not feeling particularly sensible. Instead, she simply stood shivering in the middle of Giles’ living room, trying to process exactly what had just happened.

It wasn’t how she had expected things to go. Not that she thought things would have gone well. She had, after all, come to his flat spoiling for a fight. But what she had got hadn’t quite been the fight she’d expected. A row, perhaps even a blazing one; he admitting he was avoiding her, that he was wrong to do so; she gracefully forgiving him. 

Instead he… well, broke up with her was the wrong way of putting it. Ended things was perhaps a better phrase, or at least a more accurate one. But it amounted to the same; that this thing, this fucked-up, beautiful thing they shared was over. 

Buffy felt her heart clench as she remembered the look of utter defeat Giles had worn as he had left the room. A look she had been directly responsible for, no matter how unwittingly. 

How could she tell him that she couldn’t look because she was ashamed? Not of him, but of herself. Of her selfishness. Of her inability to see the bigger picture, consider things from another perspective. His perspective. 

_‘It’s not you, it’s me.’_

Even in her head it sounded trite. Meaningless. Just another cliché trotted out at the end of a relationship to soothe the hurt. Not that it had been one, a relationship, a fact he had gone to great pains to stress to her. No, it had been less than that; they were just two friends fucking, one reading more into it than the other. Hoping. Longing. 

Loving. 

God, it hurt. 

Buffy blinked, ignoring the tears that burned their way down her cheeks. 

How could she have been so stupid?

She took a deep breath, listening for the sounds that told her where he was, what he was doing. But she heard nothing save the ticking of the clock and the patter of the rain against the windows. It was almost as if he wasn’t there. 

What to do? She didn’t want to leave. It would only make things worse. Confirm his fears, feed the insecurities he had lain bare for her to see. No, no matter how tempting it was to run, to leave the mess and the hurt and the blame behind, she had to stay. She had to talk to him. 

Blinking away the wetness that blurred her vision, she glanced out into the hallway, towards the dark wooden door she knew led to his bedroom. It was closed. Clearly, he did not want to talk. Her gaze flickered back to the living room, to the chain and lock that sat glinting upon the floor a few feet away. 

She swiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. 

No, it wasn’t going to end like this. Not if she had anything to do with it. They were going to talk, and she was going to listen. And maybe, just maybe, they could fix this. 

Nodding determinedly, she drew herself up a little taller, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. She took a step forward, bending down to grab the lock and chain from its place upon the floor. It was cool in her grasp, the tiny links flowing like water between her fingers.

She stared at the chain for a moment, contemplating, before slipping it into the front pocket of her jeans. Perhaps a direct approach was not the wisest option. His door was closed, and she was pretty sure that he would not appreciate her simply barging in uninvited. It would only lead to more arguments, more tears. No, another course of action was required. But what? 

At a loss, she did the only thing she could think of. 

She made tea.

Slipping her shoes from her feet, she padded softly towards the kitchen. Taking a deep breath to still the shivers that wracked her frame, she began by filling the kettle. As she set it to boil, she went in search of a pot and mugs, finding a matching set in duck-egg blue upon the topmost shelf. Carefully, she took them down, dropping two rectangular tea bags from the jar on the countertop into the waiting pot. Next came the milk, blue capped and half empty; she gave it a quick sniff before pouring a finger’s worth into the bottom of each mug, the kettle just reaching the boil as she returned the bottle to the fridge. Slowly, she filled the tea-pot, watching as steam began to lazily wend its way out of the spout. 

Three minutes to brew. Buffy counted the seconds, tapping a blue-tinged finger upon the countertop as she did so. 

Time up, with a small nod of satisfaction, she filled each mug to the brim, the sweet scent of cinnamon and chai-spices filling the air. 

Now she was ready. Armed with her two mugs, she made her way towards Giles’ door, calling his name softly through the wood.

The silence seemed to last an age, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood in the hallway. It was almost midnight. 

Sighing, she turned her back to the door, about to give up, when she heard his quiet reply. 

“Come in.”

Taking a deep breath, Buffy steeled herself and levered open the door with her elbow, careful not to spill the tea. It opened with a creak to reveal the darkened room beyond. 

Buffy blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. The lamps were off, the curtains open, the only light in the room that which filtered in from the hallway and the city outside the windows. On the edge of the bed sat Giles, head resting in his hands. He did not look up as she entered. 

“Ceasefire?” she asked hesitantly. 

Unwilling to wait for a reply, she leant back against the door, pressing it shut with a quiet click before moving to sit beside him on the bed. Though still in his boxers, he had also donned a T-shirt, once again covering the worst of his scars. Whether it was for her benefit or his, Buffy wasn’t sure. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she gently nudged his shoulder, careful not to spill the tea. 

“Here,” she said, holding out one of the steaming mugs.

He let his hands drop away from his face, remaining hunched over as he took the tea from her, cradling the cup between his fingers. 

“Thank you,” he replied, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.

“You know,” she said softly, “this guy once told me that where there is tea, there is hope.”

“I heard he’s a liar.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, her voice a mock stage whisper. “Everyone is.”

A small huff of amusement emanated from the man beside her, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he took a long draught from his mug, the steam from the scalding liquid fogging the lenses of his spectacles. 

Buffy let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t angry. And he’d taken the tea. 

It was a start. 

She shivered, moving a fraction closer towards him, her fingers curling around her mug. Through the sodden layers of her clothing, she could feel the heat of him at her side. He was so hot she wondered whether it would leave a mark upon her skin. Whether she would welcome it if it did.

Seeking a distraction from the man beside her, she looked around the room, her eyes having become accustomed to the relative darkness. She’d never been in his bedroom before. Neither here in London, nor out at the house in Gloucestershire. Not even the one in Sunnydale, all those years ago. 

And yet, it was exactly how she had imagined it to be, all dark furniture and heavy blankets. Bookshelves adorned the far wall, filled floor to ceiling with the less esoteric novels in his collection. On the right, beneath the skylight, stood a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, a number of wicker baskets adorning the top of each. 

She scanned the photographs that decorated the walls. Some she recognised; herself, Dawn, the rest of the gang. Some she didn’t. Her gaze landed on the three silver frames that stood upon his bedside table. She could see herself in one, stood next to Willow and Xander, waving at the camera. The frame beside it contained a photograph of an elderly couple. His parents perhaps? They did bear a passing resemblance to Giles, the gentleman particularly. Same nose. 

Next to that sat the third framed photograph, this one older, the image a little sun-bleached at the edges. It was of a woman. Late twenties, at a guess. Maybe early thirties. Brunette. Beautiful. An old girlfriend, maybe? Or perhaps a sister? 

Did Giles even have a sister? Buffy didn’t know. 

Now that she thought about it, she knew so little about Giles’ life. It was almost embarrassing. They had been together so long, partners in crime for the better part of a decade, and yet she knew virtually nothing about the man beyond his duties as a Watcher and his taste in tea. 

She had so many questions. 

_What are your parents’ names? Do you have any siblings? Where did you grow up? Go to school? To college? What did you study? Why did you run? Who is the woman in the photograph? And the scars? Where did you get them?_

_Who are you?_

But he was such a private man. Would he even answer her? 

She doubted that. 

“I thought you might have left,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence that had descended upon them. “Not that I’d have blamed you had you done so.”

Buffy shook her head, turning her focus back on the present. On the man sat next to her, rather than the questions she had about him. 

“It’s raining,” she said with forced lightness. “And I forgot my umbrella.”

Giles snorted. “I suppose you didn’t want to ruin your hair?”

“Bit late for that. Drowned rat is not a good look for Buffy. Or for anyone, really. Well, except rats. Though I suspect they’d prefer the term wet-look. Can you have a wet-look rat?”

“I’d imagine so.”

“Still gross, though.”

“Mmm,” hummed Giles in agreement. 

They lapsed back into silence again, Buffy watching him from the corner of her eye as he drained the last of the tea from his mug. Slowly, he set it down upon the bedside table with a clink, turning to face her. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but then appeared to think the better of it. His green gaze flickered over her face, watching her intently, though quite what for, she couldn’t begin to guess. Suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of his scrutiny, she shivered, teeth beginning to chatter of their own accord. A wave of cold washed through her, the now tepid tea no longer warding off the chill that had settled deep in her bones. 

Giles’ face creased into a frown as his eyes dropped to her trembling form. 

“Take your shirt off,” he said. 

Buffy blinked. Surely she had misheard him. 

“What?”

“I’m not trying to seduce you,” said Giles, plucking the half-empty mug from between her shaking hands and placing it upon his bedside table. “You’re soaked.”

“It was raining,” Buffy replied. And she hadn’t brought a coat. She’d been too preoccupied with the impending fight to remember the peculiarities of London weather. Which sort of made it his fault, if she were feeling particularly uncharitable. 

Too cold to protest, she lifted her hands to the front of her shirt, only to find that her fingers didn’t appear to want to cooperate. She pawed numbly at the buttons, the tiny pearlescent disks slipping from her grasp before she could force them back through the holes. 

Buffy growled in frustration. 

Beside her, she heard a soft tutting sound. Clearly unimpressed with her progress, Giles pushed her hands away, taking the taking the task of undressing her upon himself. 

“Come here. Let me,” he muttered, making quick work of the buttons before peeling the sodden fabric from her skin. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Why didn’t you say something?”

Buffy couldn’t reply. His hands felt like fire upon her chilled skin. They were almost uncomfortably hot as they swept up her arms, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. She felt them press briefly against her shoulders before heading down her back in search of the clasp of her bra. Hunching forward to aid him, she felt a quick tug as he freed the fastening, his hands then gently drawing the straps down as he removed it, dropping it upon the carpet beside the bed. 

“Up.” 

He tapped at her waist and she lifted her hips accordingly, giving a helpful little wriggle as he slid her jeans over her bum and down her thighs, bringing her knickers with them.

His gaze never leaving her trembling form, he tossed the last of her clothing to the floor. His face was a picture of concern, his touch gentle as pushed the wet fall of her hair out of her eyes. 

She felt exposed, more naked than she had ever felt before. The veneer of their arrangement, however thin it had been, was now gone. No longer able to hide behind Anne and Rip, they were now just Buffy and Giles, exposed emotionally as well as physically. It was almost heartbreakingly intimate. Perhaps the most intimate they had ever been with one another. 

Unaccountably shy, she began to curl up, bringing her knees to her chest. Beside her she felt Giles shift. She turned to face him only to watch as he tugged the t-shirt he wore up and over his head, leaving him clad once more in only his boxers. 

“Here,” he said gently, passing her the t-shirt. Buffy gawped at him. More specifically, at his bare chest. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, taking the soft cotton from him. It was still warm with his body heat. 

Shivering, she pulled the t-shirt over her head, her petite frame practically drowning in it. It smelt like tea and the washing powder he kept under the sink. Comforting and familiar, just like the man it belonged to. 

Beside her, she felt him lever himself up off the bed, moving to stand by the headboard. She watched as he flipped the edge duvet back in invitation. 

“In. Or you’ll catch your death,” he said, with a nod of his head. But Buffy didn’t move, suddenly wary of where this was leading, and whether she wanted to go there. 

“No, thank you. I’m okay here.”

Giles gave her a look of pure exasperation. “Good lord, Buffy, I’m not going to bite.” 

Unable to think of a good enough justification and unwilling to cause a further argument, she slipped beneath the blankets, feeling the mattress dip behind her as he followed suit. His arm circled her waist, drawing her back until she was flush against his chest, enveloping her in his warmth. She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped at the feeling of his arms around her. His grip tightened around her in response, holding her close until her shivering stopped.

“Better?”

“Thank you,” she said. “So…”

“So,” he repeated back. 

“We should talk. Do you want me to go first?” she asked, almost afraid he’d say yes.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I rather think I should.”

“You sure? It’s a bullet I’m willing to take for ya.”

“Quite sure, thank you.” He took a deep breath, his face buried in her hair, almost as if he was hiding. “I’m sorry, Buffy. I shouldn’t have shouted. What I did back there, it was… well, it wasn’t one of my finer moments.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Not a particularly encouraging statement,” he said.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

There was a pause.

“I know.”

“Do you?” she prompted, disbelieving. “Because I think we’ve got our wires crossed.”

Another pause. Longer this time, followed by a long indrawn breath. 

“I am aware of the way I look, as I am sure are you,” he said carefully, his voice low and quiet. “And I will be the first to say that I’m no prize. Maybe back when I was younger, but those days are long gone.” He sighed heavily. “I’m not the man I used to be. Though, not to dwell too heavily on my past, perhaps that is for the best.”

Buffy grimaced, poking accusingly at the arm that lay across her chest. “God, will you quit it. You’re not that old, Giles.”

“I’m fifty-two.”

“Some ladies like the more mature gentleman.”

She felt him stiffen behind her. 

“If you are about to compare me to cheese,” he said warningly, “then I shall not be held responsible for my actions.”

His fingers flexed threateningly against her, reminding her that he knew exactly where her weakest and most ticklish spots lay. Buffy grinned into the duvet. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a fine wine,” she said airily. 

“Ah, so alcohol soaked and overly pretentious.” He sniffed. “Well, as far as comparisons go, it beats smelly, I suppose.”

She elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Do you have to be so self-depreciating all the time?”

“I’m British. It’s practically a national pastime.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. Not that Giles could see. But it made her feel better, regardless. 

“Weirdo cultural standards aside,” she said, threading her fingers through his, “you really shouldn’t put yourself down so much, Giles. I mean, look at you. Okay, so you’re not Brad Pitt, and you’ve got a few flaws, but who hasn’t? You’re in far better shape than most guys your age, and it’s pretty common knowledge that chicks dig scars, of which you have plenty. So points there. And, you’ve got the whole ‘Oh, Mr. Darcy’ English restraint thing going on.” She drew a deep breath. “You’re clever, funny, and most of all, you care. Which more than makes up for all the greys and the wrinkles and the fact that you’re starting to lose the fight against the dreaded middle-aged muffin top. None of those things matter. Not really. It’s what’s inside that counts. Plus, you can be quite studly when you want to be.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I think.”

“But seriously, I mean, I would.” She paused. “Do even. Well, did.”

She felt him chuckle against her back. 

“Good, if slightly embarrassing, to know.”

She took a deep breath. It was now or never. 

“I would again, too,” she said quietly. “If you wanted to.”

“Buffy,” he sighed. “We can’t.” 

“Why not? We’re not hurting anyone.”

“I’m not too sure about that.”

She frowned. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m worried that I’m holding you back.”

Buffy felt herself bristle at the insinuation.

“I’m not a child, Giles,” she snapped. “I am capable of making my own decisions.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m worried that you might not even realise that our, er, arrangement is stopping you from moving on with your life. That what we do is taking away your future. From finding someone new.” He paused, drawing in a deep breath. “From falling in love.”

“Is that what you want?” she asked sadly. “For me to find someone else?”

“I just… I want you to be happy.”

“But I am happy.”

“Maybe you are now, but things won’t always be this way. You’re young. Eventually you’re going to want something serious.”

“What, like marriage, 2.4 kids and a white picket fence?” Her tone was bitter. 

She felt his arm tighten around her, the gesture oddly possessive. 

“You deserve someone who can give you those things, Buffy,” said Giles quietly. 

She felt her stomach lurch nastily at the implication that he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. 

“And what if I don’t want them?”

“You’re twenty-six. I very much doubt you have any idea what you want.”

“Hey!”

“It’s not a criticism,” he said quickly. 

Buffy sighed, her thumb brushing over the top of his.

“Look, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m actually happy. This, whatever it is, makes me happy. You make me happy, and I know that I make you happy, too. Maybe, right now, that’s all that matters,” she said, suddenly grateful he couldn’t see her expression. It made admitting her feelings that much easier. “Don’t you want me to be happy?” 

She felt rather than heard him sigh.

“Buffy, I –” He paused. She felt him move behind her, his forehead coming to rest against the back of her skull. “Just promise me that you won’t pass up the opportunity for something better.” 

It wasn’t the rejection she had feared. In fact, reading through the lines, it almost sounded like a yes. 

“Giles –”

“Promise me.” His voice held a steely edge. “Please.”

“I promise.”

Buffy sighed, staring out of the window at the streetlamp that shone beyond the glass. In the distance, she could hear the wail of a siren cut through the roar of the late night traffic. She shivered, pressing herself closer to Giles, seeking comfort as well as warmth. 

She’d won, but somehow, it didn’t feel like a victory.


	4. Chapter 4

Buffy awoke to the sound of a car backfiring. Muzzily, she glanced over at the clock on the beside table. It was 6.25am.

Behind her she could hear Giles breathing; his soft little exhales that weren’t quite loud enough to be considered snoring. It appeared he was still asleep. She could feel his breath against the back of her neck. She shivered, her skin tightening with gooseflesh at the sensation.

At some point during in the night, Giles had loosened his grip on her, the arm that had held her close the previous evening now merely resting lightly on her hip. Buffy placed her hand on his, her thumb gently caressing the soft skin of his knuckles. 

There was something so pleasing about waking up with company. Especially when said company was Giles. In all the time that they had spent together, both as friends and not-quite-lovers, she could count the number of times they had shared a bed on one hand. It had been something he had not encouraged, each night they spent together resulting in him choosing instead to escort her back to her own room before retreating to his, alone. At first, when their arrangement had been about her pleasure only, she had thought it merely a way to discretely relieve his _tension_. But, as things had progressed between them, it was a habit he had clung to, preferring privacy each night. 

She wondered if it was his way of separating what they did from who they were. Of ensuring the lines they had drawn between them remained crisp and sharp. 

Buffy rolled over. She inhaled sharply at the sight of her bed mate, the grey half-light that shone in through the window casting his features into stark relief. 

He was a handsome man, she’d give him that. Probably always had been, too. Asleep, his face no longer hard with tension and worry, she could see the shadow of the man he used to be. All high cheekbones and chiselled jaw. Yes, she had little doubt that Giles would have been a heartbreaker in his younger days. Beautiful and unmistakably badass, and God, she could understand that temptation. But, on the whole, she rather thought she preferred him now; his face etched with fine lines and creases, his temples grey, his body just beginning to soften around the edges. 

Unable to help herself, she pressed a kiss to his temple, watching as his eyelids fluttered open.

“Hello,” she said softly. 

She watched as Giles blinked, his sleepy gaze slowly focusing on her. 

“Hello,” he replied. 

“I thought you were still out of it,” she said, placing a hand upon his chest, focusing on the slow beat of his heart against her palm. 

“Hmmm.” It was more of a groan than an answer. 

Buffy grinned. Clearly, Giles was not a morning person. She watched as he began to doze back off, eyelids fluttering shut, face nuzzling softly into the pillow. His hand flexed at her hip, the tips of his fingers sliding beneath the hem of the t-shirt she wore, meeting bare flesh. 

There was something so very intimate about watching him sleep. Domestic, even. 

She swiftly shut down _that_ particular train of thought before it got her into trouble. 

“Sleep well?” she said, trying to distract herself.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Hmmm.” 

God, he was adorable like this. Half asleep, holding her close, unguarded and vulnerable. It was the sort of sight that made her heart twist in her chest; one she longed to wake up to every day.

 _Bad thoughts. Very bad thoughts._

Okay, so the whole distraction thing wasn’t working as well as she’d hoped. How was she going to ignore the Bad Thoughts if he was just going to leave her here alone with them?

“Hey,” she said, giving his chest a playful shove. “Wakey, wakey. The sun is…" She glanced up at the window, at the grey sky beyond the glass. "Well, it’s almost shining. Sleepy time is over. Things to do, people to see.”

Giles cracked open a single, green eye. 

“Buffy, it is a Saturday.” His voice may have been thick with sleep, but his customary glare was no less pointed. “I am of the belief that there is only one six-o’clock on a Saturday, and it is in the evening.”

“But I’m bored.”

“Then, by all means, go entertain yourself.” His eye snapped shut once more. “And might I suggest that you do so elsewhere.”

“Afraid you’ll not get your beauty sleep,” she teased. 

“Obviously.” He let out a long sigh, rolling away onto his back. “Lord knows I need all the help I can get there.”

“Grouchy.”

“Yes, well, being woken up at stupid o’clock in the morning does not tend to do wonders for my mood.”

Buffy smiled, undeterred by Giles’ early morning prickliness. A plan beginning to form in her head, she propped herself up on her elbow, the hand that still lay on his chest slowly wending its way down his sternum.

“Poor, grumpy Giles,” she said, her hand descending lower, tracing the dark trail of hair that lead to his navel. “If only there was something I could do to brighten your day.”

“I suppose letting me sleep would be too much to ask?” he grumbled, sucking in a breath as she hit a particularly ticklish spot just to the left of his hip. 

“Afraid so.”

She heard him groan above her. It wasn’t a happy sort of groan; it was more the sort of groan that usually preceded an eye roll and the words, ‘the world is doomed’.

“What are you doing?”

“Well,” she said, toying with the waistband of his underwear, “I thought that since I spent a lot of last night, and apparently this morning, making you a decidedly unhappy bunny, that I’d best tip the scales in the other direction.”

“Pardon?”

The tips of her fingers dipped briefly below the elastic, caressing the soft skin she found there, before continuing their decent downwards over the front of his boxers. Through the cotton, she could feel the hard outline of his cock. 

“Hmmm, well, it looks like I’m a little late to the party. You already seem pretty happy this morning.” 

Giles’ eyes snapped open. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and there was a look of sheer mortification on his face. 

“W-well, when one wakes up with a b-beautiful, young woman beside them–”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Buffy’s grin widened. This was far too much fun. 

He glared at her. “I-I think you’re purposefully missing the point.”

“This point?” she said, flattening her palm against the length of him. 

Giles moaned, his head falling back against the pillow, hands clenching at his sides. 

“Sometimes I think you are actively trying to kill me,” he said, his hips bucking a little as Buffy began stroking the thick ridge of his erection through his boxers. 

“What’s that phrase? The French one about orgasms?”

“La petite mort.”

“Yeah, that.” She gave him a brief squeeze. “Well, as someone who has experienced the bigger sort of mort, I gotta say, the petite kind are much more fun. So, only little deaths for you.”

Giles snorted in amusement. “I don’t suppose there is anything I could say to dissuade you?”

“Nope,” she said brightly. “Happiness is currently non-negotiable. So if I were you, I’d just lay back, relax and enjoy the ride.” She paused. “Crappy pun intended.”

This was what she wanted. What she had fought so hard for the previous night. The perfect distraction. 

She thought of the chain and lock nestled in the pocket of her jeans, but decided against retrieving it. Maybe it would go back to that, the pair of them living out their sexual fantasies through the safety of their respective alter egos. Rip demanding control, and Anne relinquishing it. It was safer that way. 

But not today. Today they would be Buffy and Giles. Friends. Equals. 

No hiding. 

Quite literally, she thought as she slid her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. The flat of her palm brushed against the bare head of his cock, smearing the sticky wetness there down the length of him. She heard him inhale sharply as her fingers encircled him, her grip tightening rhythmically as she stroked him. 

“You… you don’t have to,” he panted. “You don’t have to do this.”

Buffy withdrew her hand, rising up into a kneeling position beside him, her thumbs hooked under the elastic of his boxers.

“Off,” she said, giving them a tug. 

“Buffy, you don’t –”

She cut him off with a light smack upon the hip. 

“I want to.” She gave the soft cotton another quick tug. “Now either you move, or I rip them off. Your choice.”

Giles lifted his hips, seemingly unwilling to lose a pair of boxers to an impatient Slayer with a history of following through on her threats. Smiling at his willingness to comply, Buffy quickly and efficiently removed his underwear, pushing his bare thighs apart as she moved to kneel between them. 

She’d never seen his cock before. He was bigger than average, but perhaps only by a fraction. She watched as a small drop of milky fluid began to bead at the tip. Her eyes never leaving his, she briefly sucked the pad of her thumb before drawing it wetly over the head of his cock, the rest of her hand curling neatly around his shaft as she did so. Giles’ eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back against the pillows as he drew a shaky breath. 

“I want to taste you,” she said. 

She heard Giles’ breath hitch, watched as his eyes snapped back open, pupils blown wide. Satisfied she had his full attention, she shifted position, her hand still working his rock hard cock. She felt him twitch in her grip as she bent to press hot little kisses to the skin of his inner thigh, working slowly up until she met the crease of his hip. Hand still moving, she nipped the sensitive skin she found there, reveling in the ragged moan it drew from his lips. Slowly, she drew back until her mouth was almost touching the very tip of his cock. 

Almost, but not quite. 

A sly grin crept over her face and she licked her lips, watching as his eyes hungrily followed the movement.

“Do you know how often I’ve imagined doing this to you?” she asked, the pad of her thumb caressing the sensitive underside of his cock as she spoke. 

“No.” The word was more of a groan than an answer. “How often?”

“Almost every night for the past year.”

And it was true. She had. It had been one of her more regular fantasies. 

“Jesus,” he breathed. 

“No,” she teased. “Buffy.”

He drew in a shaky breath, ready to reply, but whatever it was that he was about to say was lost to a low groan as her lips latched around the head of his cock, drawing him into the hot, wet cavern of her mouth. In her peripheral vision, she could see the muscles of his stomach tense as pleasure knifed through him. A wave of heat rolling over her at the sight, she let her head lower, her tongue swirling around his shaft as she took as much of him as she dared.

He tasted different from the men she had been with before; almost sweet with a bitter aftertaste that she felt deep in the back of her throat. Smelled different, too. Not that she’d done this for many. Two to be exact, and one of them had been dead. Well, un-dead, which was bound to make things a little more unusual in the flavour department. 

Not that she was thinking about _that_ right now.

A strangled moan filled the air as she hollowed her cheeks, creating a light pressure around his cock. Slowly, she drew back, releasing him from her mouth inch by tortuous inch, his skin glistening in the early morning light. She felt herself growing wetter at the sight, the cool air of the bedroom hitting her exposed cunt as she shifted position, trying to ease the ache that had settled between her thighs.

He was beautiful like this; hard and panting, his brow beaded with sweat, his thighs tensing as she gently mouthed the head of his cock. Holding back a moan of her own, she curled her fingers around him, her touch feather-light. She arched her back, fighting the urge to touch herself, desire coiling tightly in her belly. There was something so deliciously wanton about teasing him this way, about kneeling between his thighs wearing nothing but his t-shirt, the soft cotton brushing against the stiff little peaks of her nipples as her hand stroked his spit-slicked skin. 

She sucked gently upon the tip of his cock, her hand slowly working his shaft, teasing a low groan from him. Her tongue flickered over sensitive little crease at the underside of the head, making his hips snap upwards in response. From the corner of her eye, she could see his hands had fisted into the bed sheets, his knuckles white, the tendons in his arms straining as he fought the pleasure that coursed through his veins. 

Slowly, she moved her hand down to cup his balls, the tips of her fingers ghosting against the soft skin of his perineum. Releasing the tip with a wet pop, she pressed the flat of her tongue to the seam that ran up the underside of his shaft, drawing it up in one long, tortuous lick. Giles practically growled in response. Satisfied, she repeated the action, delighting in the helpless little sounds that emanated from him as she did so. 

She could understand now why Giles had liked doing this to her; why, even after she had given him explicit permission to fuck her, he still preferred to use his hands, his tongue, whenever he could, brining her pleasure without ever seeming to seek his own. 

It was intoxicating, all this power; that she alone decided what he could feel, when he could come. It was almost enough to send her over the edge. 

Almost, but not quite. There was something missing. 

With a groan, she pressed the heel of her free hand against her clit, her hips snapping forward as she sought more friction. She felt empty, hollow, her cunt throbbing even as her fingers splayed against it, seeking to fill the void. 

Buffy was wracked with indecision. She so badly wanted to fuck him, to ride him hard against the mattress, to feel his cock striking deep inside her as he made her come undone around him. But that would mean sacrificing what she had now: him beneath her, writhing and desperate, his body taut and slick with sweat as he begged for her hands, her mouth. 

Her mercy. 

God, what to do? Perhaps it was time to let him decide. To let him take control. She pressed a kiss to the head of his cock before drawing back up onto her knees, the change in position driving her fingers deep into her cunt. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” she said, her wrist twisting as her hand slid slowly up and down his aching cock, coaxing a low moan from him as she did so. 

“Yes,” he hissed. “God, yes, I do. More than anything. But we can’t.”

“Why not?”

He was panting, his eyes tightly shut as he fought for concentration. 

“Condoms… I didn’t think… Not here.”

A good point. 

“Shit.”

Giles let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Quite.”

Well, that solved that problem, then.

“Looks like I’m going to have to get a little creative,” she said, continuing to languidly stroke his cock. “Look at me.”

She watched as his eyes flickered to her face, then down to her hand, to the point where her fingers disappeared between her thighs. 

“God.”

His cock twitched in her hand. Evidently, Giles liked what he saw. 

“Talk to me,” she said. “Tell me what you’d do to me if we were back in your garden. If you were in charge.”

As pleasurable as this was, this meeting of equals, Buffy found herself longing for his instruction, his command. She needed it; she needed that loss of control to come. And quite what that said about her, she shuddered to think. Something vaguely Freudian, no doubt. 

“God, I… I –”

She stilled her hand around him. She needed to know. 

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me and I’ll let you come.”

Giles’ hips bucked, seeking friction, but finding none, her hand remaining motionless, grip loose. He groaned. 

“I-I’d take your wrists… bind them… bind them behind your back.”

Buffy could see it in her mind’s eye. Her hands tied with black ribbon, forcing her spine into an arc, her breasts thrust prettily out towards him, the outline of her nipples stark through the soft fabric of his t-shirt. 

“So I can’t touch myself.”

_Like I'm doing now._

She slowly withdrew her fingers from her cunt, beginning to circle her clit, sending shockwaves of pure pleasure coursing through her body. Giles followed the movement, his green gaze fixed avidly on her left hand. 

“Then I’d make you kneel.” He swallowed roughly. “Straddle me. Your knees either side of my thighs.”

“And then?”

“I –” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I'd press my hand against you. I-Intimately. Watch your muscles tense, the expression on your face change.”

God, she could picture it as clear as day. Practically feel his hands on her.

“Giles,” she moaned.

She was close. So close it was like agony. 

“I’d want to fuck you, but I wouldn’t. Not yet. I’d want you to beg first. Make me sure that it was exactly what you wanted.”

Their eyes met. 

“And when you were sure?”

His gaze was steady. 

“I’d take you.”

The force of her orgasm was like nothing she had ever felt before. It ripped through her like a hurricane, making her buck wildly against her fingers, her other hand tightening its shuddering hold around Giles’ cock. She could see stars. Far away, over the roar of blood in her ears, she heard him moan as he came, her grip becoming slick and sticky as she stroked him to completion. 

Exhausted, she slumped forwards, her forehead resting against Giles’ heaving chest.

“Fuck,” she whispered against his skin. 

She heard him let out a breathy snort of amusement. “Quite.”

Buffy grinned, feeling almost lightheaded from the endorphin rush. Slowly, she pushed herself up, wiping her sticky hands on the hem of the t-shirt she wore, ignoring the small sounds of disgust that emanated from Giles as she did so. 

“You could have asked for a handkerchief,” he said, his glare only half-hearted. “I’ll have to wash that now.”

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” she said, flopping down beside him, pulling the bed covers up to ward off the early morning chill that had settled in the room. “Too late now.”

Buffy curled up against him, her head nestled against the hollow of his shoulder, legs tangling with his beneath the rumpled duvet. She felt almost boneless, a deep warmth suffusing her body as she rested against him. With a sigh, she allowed her eyes to flutter closed. She could hear his heartbeat; it was still a little fast. 

“You know,” she said, wriggling closer until her body was completely flush with his, “last night, when we were talking, I realised something important.”

“Oh, and what was that?” he replied, gently brushing her hair back away from her face. Her eyes flickered open at the touch.

“That I know almost nothing about you,” she said, pressing her hand flat to his chest, her fingertips tracing the silvery little knots in his flesh Angelus had left all those years ago. “We’ve been in each other’s lives for nearly ten years, and I don’t even know something as simple as your mother’s name.”

“You’ve never asked.”

It was almost embarrassing, now that she thought about it. Could she even call him a friend when she didn’t know something so simple as the names of his parents? He knew hers; even that of her feckless father, once so loving, and now nothing more than a shadow lurking in the memories of her childhood. 

“I’m asking now.”

“Marion,” he said quietly.

“And your father?”

“Edmund.” He paused. “It’s a family name.”

That explained the E in his initials, then. 

“Brothers? Sisters?”

She felt him shift against her. Buffy would have bet good money, had they been anywhere else other than in bed, his face bare, that Giles would be polishing his much-abused lenses with particular vigour right about now. Classic displacement activity. A distraction. 

Clearly at a loss for what to do with his hands, he twined his fingers in the silky strands of her hair. 

“Where are you going with this?”

Buffy ignored him. She had so many questions to ask. And suddenly, the answers to those questions seemed very important. The knowledge gained a metric for how much she cared. 

And she did care. 

“Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?” She could hear her voice beginning to rise in pitch. “Or pets? Did you have any of those?”

“Buffy…” said Giles, his tone almost heartbreakingly gentle. 

“And this?” She placed a hand on his thigh, covering the deep crease of the scar there. “Where did you get this? Surgery?”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the tolling of far-away church bells. St. Paul’s, most likely. It was 7 am. 

“It was for a fractured femur,” said Giles awkwardly, as though the admission were a difficult one. “They had to put a plate in.”

“Why?”

“Nothing supernatural,” he said softly. She heard him draw in a deep breath, as though steadying himself. “I was in a rather nasty car accident. Hit a patch of black ice up in the Scottish borders. Spun into he path of an oncoming lorry.” He paused. “I don’t really remember that much about it, in all honesty.”

“Oh.”

“It took three fire fighters to cut me from the car.”

Buffy was at a loss. What exactly _did_ you say to that? 

“I-I didn’t know,” she stammered.

“There’s no reason you should.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “It was a very long time ago now.”

He stilled beside her. She craned her neck to look at him, only to find him focused on something else. Buffy followed the direction of his gaze. 

“Was she there?” she said, pointing at the photograph of the pretty brunette that stood on his bedside table. 

He nodded. 

“Georgie,” he said sadly. “She was driving.”

Well, that went some way to explaining the photograph. 

Buffy stared at him, desperate to ask her next question, but unsure she wanted to know the answer. Giles shook his head.

“Instant, apparently.” 

“God.” 

She swallowed roughly, her throat suddenly sore at the thought of him alone in that car, nothing but a dead woman for company as he waited to be rescued. It made her feel sick inside. All that pain, that suffering. And she hadn’t even known. 

“It was a long time ago, Buffy,” he said gently, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. “Now come on, we ought to get dressed.” He pressed a small kiss to the centre of her forehead. “Things to do, people to see, didn’t you say?”

Gifting her with a swift pat on the hip, he slipped out from beside her, proceeding to lean down beside the bed and grab his boxers from their place upon the floor. Underwear donned, he pushed himself up from the bed, fishing a pair of dark jeans out from the chest of drawers. 

Still consumed by dark thoughts, Buffy sat up on the bed, turning to face him. 

“And your hip?” she said, as Giles began to fasten the buttons of his trousers. “Was that from the accident too?”

“Nothing so dramatic as all that.” She watched, confused, as a small smile crept over his face. “No, I got bottled by a fellow student in my final year. A boy called Haigh-Palmer. I think his first name was St. John, or something equally ghastly. I can’t really remember now.”

Buffy blinked. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. 

“What?! Why?”

His smile grew wider. “Caught me shagging his girlfriend.”

“Giles!”

“I blame it entirely on my youthful exuberance.” He gave her a sly look. “Where do you think the nickname Ripper came from?”

Surely not. He wouldn’t have, would he? But then again, he was a Watcher. And Watchers fought dirty. 

“God, what did you do?” she asked, eyes wide. “Knife him, or something?”

“Good grief, no. The name stems entirely from my own injuries.” His grin widened. “It was only once I left Oxford that the moniker provoked anything other than ridicule.”

Buffy blinked, realisation slowly dawning.

“You’re terrible, do you know that?”

She threw a pillow at him, biting back the grin that threatened to emerge. 

“It has been said before,” he confirmed, catching the down-filled missile before it hit him. 

“And a bit of a dark horse.”

“Again, not an original statement.”

“But one thing you’re not,” she said, eyebrows arched, “is funny.”

Giles snorted. 

“I believe that is where we differ in opinion.”

“Well, we can’t agree on everything,” she replied equitably. 

“Indeed not.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her up from the bed. “What would you like to do today?”

It was still raining, and her clothes were still lying in a damp heap on the floor. It looked like they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. Buffy grinned. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, threading her fingers through his. “Let’s just see where the mood takes us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part IV of Sanctuary, Labyrinth, will be posted as part of Summer_Of _Giles 2017.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Apologies for the massive delay in posting. A combination busy RL times and signing up for too many fests and exchanges (like the moron that I am) meant this got put on the back burner for a while. 
> 
> Ooops.


End file.
